Last weekend saw me revisiting the West Highland Line in more ways than one. On the Saturday I travelled on the SRPS’ Railtour up to Fort William and Mallaig and on Sunday I was along at the Filmhouse in Edinburgh for Scotland by Train, a selection of short archive films in association with the exhibition of the same name at the National Museum of Scotland, and there I saw A Line for all Seasons, a 1970 film about the WHL. For me it is a case of revisiting, at least in part, as my earliest childhood memories are of living not far from Helensburgh Upper station with the line running in a cutting behind the houses across the road from us; my earliest recollections of trains and rail travel start there.
We first knew the station in the late 1960s. In many respects it was like Perks’ station in The Railway Children, except that I didn’t know of that book until after I knew this station. For me it was the other way round and their station was like mine.
Helensburgh Upper was entirely lit by gas. There were gas lamps in the covered walkway down to the platform from the road bridge. Two gas lamp posts – quite literally lamps attached to great wooden posts – on the platform before you reached the station building. Wall mounted gas lanterns under the canopy outside and interesting gas brackets within. The one I really remember is the little curly bracket over the ticket window. Later I recall seeing the tags hanging from each fitting to testify that they had been converted for natural gas, something of particular interest to an enquiring mind, as we didn’t have any gas appliances at home. The station didn’t get connected to the electricity supply until sometime in the 1970s – a matter of some disappointment to me at the time.
We almost seemed to have a family connection to the line and the station. My sister was born, at home, in 1967. I was three and, it seems, took the news of the new arrival very well. Some days later it was discovered that having heard a train pass just a few minutes before the birth I was under the impression that my new sister had come by train and was only visiting. It’s a tale my sister relishes and, despite not being overly fond of modern rail travel, she still refers to the WHL as her line. Later mother ran the small shop and filling station across the road from the station entrance and got to know the stationmaster – by this time the only member of staff employed there. His house was adjacent to the shop; indeed I believe that the shop was on railway land. It always intrigued me how he lived in a house across such a busy road from his station; now I realise that there was probably a way from the house to the station alongside the line and under the road – at least originally.
Being known by the stationmaster had its benefits. One cold morning when we were waiting for a train to take us to the city the stationmaster came out and apologised to mother that British Rail no longer provided him with coals for the waiting room fire. Instead he invited us into his snug office behind the ticket window. That was an unexpected treat for me. So much to see behind the scenes: the racks of tickets; the machine in which they were punched; the great grandfather-like clock ticking away with a face on one side to be seen through the ticket window, a face on the other to be seen in the office area, and rods out each side to drive the faces on the outside wall (the one towards the now disused up platform having been cut off). Some time later I received through this gentleman’s good offices a discarded BR cap, which I regret to say I lost many years ago.
This was a station that still held and continued some of the best traditions of railway service. Coming back from Glasgow one autumn afternoon the train broke down and we were considerably delayed getting home. The station lamps had already been extinguished by the time we got there but we were met by the stationmaster who escorted us to the street holding a lantern aloft to light our way and apologising, on behalf of the railway, for the inconvenience caused by the delay.
Over the years there were many changes in and around Helensburgh Upper station. Before I knew of it Dr Beeching had done his stuff. It used to be an island platform with tracks on both sides but by the time we came to be waiting there the tracks only passed the southern platform; the northern side was quite derelict. In our time there the telegraph poles were removed, I recall sitting with some friends on a fence watching the men cut them up with chainsaws and throw the insulators into the undergrowth.
Between the station and our house the road dipped down and there was a disused area of ground adjacent to the line. A neighbour of ours rented this plot from BR and used it to provide storage for sailing boats. Along with his son I got to explore this area, right up to the fence by the railway. In the undergrowth there was a large amount of railway debris lying about – the rods that connect a signal box to the points and pulleys for the signal wires. I had wondered whether this might have been a goods yard or something but perusal of those historic maps suggests not, probably just a piece of railway territory that was convenient for depositing materials when Dr Beeching’s henchmen had done their bit.
Helensburgh Upper
Sometime in the 1980s the historic Highland railways building on the platform was demolished and replaced with a plastic bus shelter. I suspect that once the old stationmaster retired the place had officially become unmanned. Revisiting, and actually alighting there, in recent years I was struck by how much smaller the station appears than I recall. The initial reaction is that it is the usual experience of returning as an adult to something last seen as a child, but perusal of the historic map and comparison to the Google satellite view leads me to the conclusion that the platform is indeed about half the size it once was. The buildings I remember probably started towards the western end of the current platform – which would make sense when I recall that we’d walk past those lampposts and a large wooden signboard before reaching the near end of the building. Last week I noted that the platform had recently been extended.
The yard where the boats used to sit has been built on and flats now back onto the railway there. Mother’s shop now longer has the petrol pumps outside and the first school I attended is no longer a school. It’s all changed out of recognition and I’m starting to yearn for the good old days.
